


It's been a rough week

by fandomstakeoveryourlife



Series: Marvel Support Group AU [1]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Bipolar Disorder, Clint Barton-centric, Depressed Tony Stark, Everyone Needs A Hug, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2019-11-24 00:26:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18159026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomstakeoveryourlife/pseuds/fandomstakeoveryourlife
Summary: It felt like Clint's anthem: "It's been a rough week"or, 5 times Clint said "it's been a rough week" and 1 time he didn't





	It's been a rough week

**1**

Clint had never liked support groups, and yet he found himself going to one every week. It had been a few weeks back that his foster mom, Laura, had forcefully encouraged him to join a support group. She had said it would be beneficial for him; introduce a routine, as well as put him around kids his own age, who were suffering in similar ways. But, to be honest, it all sounded like bullshit to Clint; why would he want to spend two hours sitting in a circle, with a bunch of whiny teenagers? That wasn't gonna fucking help.

And yet, here he was, standing outside the youth centre, where the group was held, with a smouldering cigarette pinched between two fingers, trying to avoid going inside for as long as possible. He wasn't feeling it today (not that he ever was); he couldn't remember the last time he'd slept more than two and a half hours, and he hadn't eaten properly in days; his stomach kept refusing food, and now he was running on two cans of monster and at least three, maybe four, cigarettes. His hands were shaking, but he'd gotten good at ignoring that.

From his perch on one of the low walls in the ramp up to the door, he could see three guys, around his age, getting out of a car. One, a tall, beefed up blonde, was holding the car keys and having, what looked like, a firm conversation with a second guy, who had longish dark hair. The third guy, with shirt dark hair and wearing sunglasses and a suit jacket, was stood off to one side, looking bored while sipping from something that Clint guessed to be an ice coffee. Sunglasses sighed and turned to say something to the other two, before heaving his shoulders in an exasperated fashion and heading towards Clint, and the door to the building.

As he drew closer, Clint observed the guy's casual, yet tense stance, with one hand shoved in his pocket, and his shoulders and jaw set firmly. From the bold, and expensive, looking style, it was easy to guess that he came from a well off family. Sunglasses snorted at the cigarette Clint was taking a heavy drag on.

"Classy; a quick smoke before therapy." And with that, he was disappearing through the double doors. _Asshole._ The other two guys had hugged then separated by now, and the one with long dark hair was striding towards the building, with high set shoulders. For a moment, as he drew close, a brief surge of fear flooded through Clint; the kind of fear that surfaced around his father, and, later, his brother, Barney. Then, with a harsh drag on his fag, it was gone, like smoke. He earned a hard, dark glare from the guy, before he too was disappearing through the doors. Clint watched the blonde get in his car and drive off, before he stubbed out his cigarette beneath his boot and went in.

The room was mostly full when he entered; half the chairs in the circle were occupied, with a handful of other people drifting around. Clint recognised quite a few of them, from previous sessions, however, he spoke to no one; why would he? Sunglasses was mingling a bit, but long hair was sitting down in the circle, somehow slumped yet tense as once. Clint took his usual seat, glad to see it wasn't occupied, and neither were the seats either side of it. Within moments, the Support worker, who lead the group, was calling everyone to sit down, so that they could begin.

"Right then, seeing as we have new faces here this week, I think we shall go around and introduce ourselves, make sure to say why you're here, so no one feels different." She smiled broadly around the circle. "Right, I'll start shall I? My name is Holly, and I'm your group support worker. I'm here to help you recover and learn to cope with your struggles."

She gestured to the boy next to her, encouraging him to speak.

Clint flopped back in his chair and zoned out as the next girl began to speak. He flicked his eyes around the circle, observing the few that usually caught his eye; a stick thin girl with sharp cheek bones and brown hair, sitting close to a boy with glasses, who never seemed to sit still. Then, to a fierce looking girl with flaming red hair and a death-glare scowl. Sunglasses and long hair caught his attention again; they were sitting next to each other, and sunglasses looked bored again, picking at his nails. Glancing up, Clint realised it was his turn soon.

"'m Clint, 'm Bipolar and 'm here caused they think 'm fucked in the head." He didn't feel like being cooperative today.

Holly frowned at him. "Clint, language please." Her tone was warning, though Clint knew she wouldn't explode on him; she never did, even when he had an episode before, and threw chairs.

His hands were shaking again; he was dying for another cigarette, or a monster, or _something_.

"Hey, I'm Tony Stark," Sunglasses was talking, in a bored tone that matched his expression, "I'm chronically depressed and I'm here because I tried to kill myself." Huh, not so unique after all.

"I'm James, I've got PTSD and I'm here because I keep hurting people." Whilst he didn't look too bothered about the whole thing, there was a sense of emotional pain in his eyes; regret.

When he zoned back in again, the red haired girl was speaking.

"My name is Natasha and I've got OCD and I'm here because it's ruling my life."

Clint was always surprised by her; she just didn't look like someone who'd have OCD. Guess mental health doesn't discriminate.

Then it was the boy with the glasses' turn.

"Hello, I'm Bruce and I've got severe anxiety and intermittent explosive disorder. I'm here because I lost control and nearly killed someone."

Clint blinked, then listened to the girl speak, even though he could already guess what she was going to say.

"Hello, my name's Jane, and I'm anorexic. I'm here because I'm in recovery." Her tone was bright and there was a wide smile on her face.

When everyone finished introducing themselves, Holly spoke to each person in turn, asking them about their week, and how they were doing, glancing down at the notebook in her lap, and scribbling down bits as they spoke. Clint hated every bit of the therapy sessions, but especially this part. He chewed on the rough skin around his nails, anxiety suddenly blooming in his stomach.

"What about you, Clint? How have you been?" Holly was looking at him with the same eagerly hope filled eyes as usual. Guilt pooled lightly in his gut.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "It's been a rough week."

Holly's cheerful expression dropped. "Did you do what I suggested? You know, with the exercise and the eating and the sleeping?"

"No." He hadn't even tried.

She sighed. "You're never going to get better, or learn to deal with your Bipolar Disorder, if you don't make an effort; it isn't going to happen on its own." She leveled her gaze with his. "Remember, baby steps; it starts with the little things, and little things start habits. So, this week, I want you to try to change little things; exercise for 10 minutes a day, when you're not doing anything, have little snacks throughout the day, set a time to go to bed at each night, and stick to it, without going on a screen, okay?"

"Sure." Didn't mean he was _actually_ going to do it, but it'd make her shut up.

Holly moved onto the next kid in the circle, and Clint slumped down in his seat. He felt so fucking exhausted, even though he knew he'd end up barely sleeping more than an hour or two that night; it's how it always was.

"-what about you, Tony? How has your week been?"

Clint watched Tony do a sort of half shrug.

"It's been okay, for me; just my dad ignoring me as usual, 'cause I'm never good enough for him." His tone seemed uncaring, but it was clear that the whole thing did bother him, though his pride was to great to show it.

"Oh, okay. Do you want your dad to notice you?" Holly prodding around, as always.

"I guess. He's just always so busy, and I just want him to be proud of me, like an actual father would be, y'know?"

After that, Tony seemed to shutter himself in, and his responses turned minimal and mono tonal. Holly smiled, seemingly unfazed, and moved swiftly onto James.

"How have you been, James?"

James flicked his dark eyes upwards and grimaced. "Not good. Had an episode and hurt someone."

"Who did you hurt, James? Someone you care about?" James flinched at the question and focused his eyes on the ground, hard.

"Yeah. My best friend. He was trying to help. I don't know." His chest rose and fell sharply, and something clenched in Clint's chest.

His hands were shaking again.

 

**2**

He was outside the Youth Centre again, twitching.

Clint had perched himself on the wall, with a half full monster can in one hand, two crumpled ones sitting to his left. It felt like reality was stuck on fastfoward mode.

"Hey, Clint. You okay?"

He jumped and jerked his head sideways, to find himself staring at Jane and some huge, long haired blonde guy.

A twitchy nod shook his frame. "Yeah. Never better. 'm buzzed. Fuckin' buzzed." He shook his can at her.

Jane smiled, though she looked concerned. The blonde guy behind her shared her expression, though, without the smile.

"Are you sure you are alright, friend? You seem a little unstable." The deepness of the guy's voice was shocking, yet unsurprising.

Another trembling nod. "Yep. Never unstable. Not me. Do I know you? Who are you? You're fuckin' huge. Muscle."

Jane laughed lightly. "Clint, this is my boyfriend, Thor. He walks with me sometimes."

 Clint grinned at the huge blonde, all teeth. He hadn't even noticed they'd gone in, until a hand on his shoulder made him flinch, like he'd been punched. His head snapped around and he found himself staring into a pair of concerned soft brown eyes. Tony.

"You alright, kid?" Though the added nickname made him sound teasing, Clint knew pure, raw concern when he saw it. He tried to nod in response, and ended up with some sort of rapid jerking twitch. Tony's eyebrow drew together in a frown.

He nodded towards the monster cans. "How many have you had?"

Thinking hard, Clint tried to remember. "Just these ones." Tony hummed in reply, and straightened up. Clint blinked, and James and the blonde guy, from the week before, were at Tony's shoulder; James was staring at him, hard.

Blondie looked on edge, his blue eyes flicking between a twitching Clint, and Tony, who's lips were moving like he was talking, though all sound had decided to evade Clint's ears.

"Do we need to go get Holly?" The soft deep tone of James' voice broke through Clint's caffeine induced silence.

"No, no, no. No Holly. 'm okay." The voice stuck together in the back of his throat and rushed out in one exhaled sound, slurred.

"Have you done anything? Taken anything?" Blondie was speaking - why did all these guys have such fucking deep voices?

"Fuck. No. 'm fine. Fuck. Just been a fuckin' rough week." A wave of dizziness swept over Clint as he pulled himself to his feet, his words coming out in gasps. His stomach threatened to rebel and his head spun. Grasping at the wall with one hand, he inhaled roughly.

The half full can was squeezed out of his grip. "I don't think you should have the rest of this." Clint nodded in agreement, his eyes squeezed tight shut.

A pair of firm hands slipped under his arms and lowered him to the floor, his back up against the wall of the Youth Centre.

"Put your knees up and count your breathing." James' soft tone rung in his ears and heaved his knees up against his chest, counting unevenly in his head, trying desperately to ignore the sour taste in his mouth and the fuzzy grey feeling that was soaking through his body. A hand lingered on his upper arm, gently squeezing, keeping him grounded.

As the fog began to clear, he blinked his eyes open again, squinting in the watery light of the sun. James was sitting, beside him, facing him, one hand on Clint's bicep. Tony and Blondie were seated on the wall, watching and murmuring to each other in low voices. Tipping his head back against the wall, he breathed.

"When did you last eat?"

The question took him by surprise. Running the tip of his tongue over his teeth, he thought. "Dunno. Tried the other morning, but I threw it up. Haven't eaten since then."

"Let's go get brunch." Blondie looked from one person to the next. His eyes fell onto Clint. "I'm Steve, by the way."

"Clint."

*     *     *     *

Apparently Steve's idea of brunch was a 50s style dinner, complete with bright red leather booths, and waitresses in short, puffy skirted navy blue dresses, with frilled white aprons over the top. Except, it seemed to have gone to seed; the floors and walls had gone a soured off-white, and the red had faded to an orangey brown, the leather cracking. The waitresses might have been cute in their younger years, but now they wore round faces and dresses tighter than need be, with grease stained aprons. And yet, even with the overweight truckers sitting at the bar, flirting with the spotty faced cashier girl, the feeling wasn't an unpleasant one.

A waitress, with a dress that could barely contain her, greeted them cheerily, as if she knew them well.

"Aw, you've brough' a new one with you today, I see." Her accent was thickly southern, and when she smiled, all Clint could see was black and yellow.

They took a booth by a large smeared window, Steve and Tony on one side, James and Clint on the other. Whilst Steve and James seemed to know what they wanted immediately, Clint washed his eyes over the text; what seemed least unappealing?

A shoulder nudged against his own."What're you getting?" Bucky was watching him, his dark eyes flicking over Clint, taking in his tense posture and still trembling hands.

"I'll pick something for you, if you want." He offered when Cling gave a stiff shrug.

It wasn't long before the overly curvy waitress reappeared, shuffling slightly against the strain of her dress. "What'll it be then, m' darlin's?"

"I'll have the classic, please. And a coffee." Steve collected up their menus and handed them back.

"Um, I'll have the double fry up, and a coffee as well."

Clint's heart suddenly accelerated in his chest; what if James picked something he wouldn't like? What if he couldn't keep it down?

"I'll have the strawberry and banana pancakes and he'll have the classic waffles, with two waters, please." It was odd hearing James speak like this, when just the week before, he'd been severe and like he could kill you with a single stare.

The Waitress bustled off, twitching the hem of her dress down a little as she went. Clint slumped in his seat, his energy suddenly gone.

"So why are you at the Support Group?"

Clint blinked back to reality and found three pairs of eyes watching him. He shrugged in response.

Tony, however, didn't seem too satisfied with this response and pushed. "Last week you said you were there because they thought you were fucked in the head. So why are you really there?"

Huffing, Clint sat up a little more. "They diagnosed me with Bipolar Disorder, I was either on the wrong medication, or on none at all. I fucked up; hurt other people, hurt myself, drank, tried some self medication, flipped shit and hit a fucking lot. They put me in a Psych Ward and then into a foster home straight after, and here I am."

The words came out in an angry rush and he slumped back against the sagging booth seat again, arms folded loosely across his chest.

"Everybody's got their own fucking sad story." Tony sounded weirdly unemotional, like he was just stating a fact.

It wasn't long before their food arrived; Steve was greeted with a large plateful of fried bread, bacon, eggs, sausages and pancakes. Tony had four fried tomatoes, each sliced in half, and four fried eggs, along with some fried and cheese on the side; Clint wasn't too sure what kind. A serving of pancakes, topped with sliced banana and drizzled with strawberry sauce arrived in front of James, followed by a platter, consisting of two waffles with a bottle of syrup, for Clint.

For several long moments, no one spoke; only the sounds of cutlery on plates, chewing and swallowing echoed between the four of them. Clint ate slowly and deliberately, making sure to chew thoroughly before attempting to swallow his mouthful; he wasn't taking any chances. Despite the rough appearance of the diner, the food was pretty fucking good, and slight tremors of hunger rumbled through the depths of his stomach. By the time he was getting full, about half way through his plateful, the other three had mostly finished, and were moping up the last trailings of sauce, or meat juices.

"This has been nice," it was Tony, "we should do this more often."

Clint rolled his eyes.

 

**3**

It had been two weeks since Clint had gone to the Support group. Two shitty weeks.

His foster mom, Laura, had dropped him off at the Youth building, rather than letting him walk like he usually did. She'd even gone so far as to walk him inside and speak to Holly in hushed tones, while Clint slumped, exhausted, on one of the seats; at least he got first pick of the chairs. It wasn't too long before other teenagers came filing through the double swing doors, and into the room, choosing seats and chatting in low tones.

Clint fiddled anxiously with the cuff of his hoodie, and the edge soft, white bandage that lay, wrapped tight, beneath it. His stomach was tying itself in knots as he waited for Tony and James to come through the doors; he didn't want them to come over, with disappointed expressions and pitying tongues. He felt sick.

As Holly called the group together, Tony and James entered. Clint kept his head ducked to avoid their eyes. As per usual, Holly did her introduction circle, her smile seeming a little tighter than usual. Then, the bit that Clint had been dreading; the week review.

"Clint, what about you; how's your week been?"

Clint glanced up through the silence, butterflies erupting as he caught James' eye.

"It's been a rough week." As soon as he spoke, he knew Holly was going to poke and prod him until he vomited emotions and got it all out.

"And why's that?"

"I tried to kill myself." There was silence, and Clint didn't dare look up.

"What for, Clint? What was the reason?"

He shrugged halfheartedly. "'Cause there's no fuckin' point to life; you just go around in one giant motherfuckin' circle. I'm not gettin' better, and I never fuckin' will. They jus' keep upping my dosage, or changin' my drugs, but it never fuckin' works. There's no reason to stay, so why should I?"

"Well, you need to find a reason to live, and when you do, you need to cling onto it like a starfish to a rock in a stormy sea. You need to want to get better and to change, otherwise you'll never get anywhere."

There was a heavy silence for several long moments.

"You can take a break, Clint, if you need to." He rose up and strode out of the room, without looking back.

*     *     *     *

The ramp up to the Youth centre was cool on the concrete floor, and comfortable, yet really fucking not. Sitting with his back up against the wall, Clint fiddled with the bandages around his wrists. He was staring out over the carpark, counting his breathing, and feeling his chest rise and fall. It felt like he was drowning.

"Hey." James settled on the floor, his arm butting up against Clint's.

"Hey yourself." Clint didn't pull his eyes away from the parking lot.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

A hollow laugh echoed in Clint's throat. "Don't have your phone number."

"Clint." James gripped his chin and turned his head, forcefully, so they were eye to eye. "I mean it."

A huff. "I didn't think, okay? I just wanted it all to end. I hate dealing with the mood swings; the up and hyper one week and down and fuckin' depressed as hell the next week. I can't do it anymore. And, I feel like a burden, y'know? I just- I can't."

His eyes were watering and he wiped them hurriedly, then blinked hard as escapee tears slipped down his cheeks. He sniffed hard and swallowed, though the lump in his throat hardly seemed to waver. A calloused hand gripped his shoulder and Clint found himself being pulled firmly against James. He turned and buried his face into James' neck as sobs wrenched through his body. Firm arms held him tight and for the first time in a long time, Clint felt safe.

 

**4**

Clint sat with his mobile clenched tightly in his hand, staring at his fist. His chest was heaving and he'd already thrown up, though it was hard to tell if it had been from, withdrawal, the fight, or the panic attack that had been creeping up for what felt like hours now. He tipped his head forward, his forehead leaning against his knees, breath leaving his lips in harsh gasps.

Before he could change his mind, he dialed a number into his phone and hit call.

"....hello? Clint?"

His heart thudded in his chest. This had been a mistaken. He shouldn't have called.

"Clint? You there?"

His finger hovered near the hang up button.

"Clint. I know you're there; what's wrong?"

" _James_." He blurted it before he could stop himself. His own voice sounded so fucking pathetic and weak and broken.

"Fuck. Clint. What's happened?" There was urgency in his tone.

"A lotta shit."

"Fuck. Where are you? I'll come get you."

"Somewhere."

"Fuck, Clint! I'm trying to fucking help you here!" James' tone went sharp and angry. Something twinged in Clint's chest; he knew James and he knew he was upset, not mad, but it still brought memories flooding back like icey water down his spine. He felt his body hunch inwards.

"'m'sorry." 

"Fuck. It's okay; I shouldn't have shouted." He paused. "Look, just come over, and you can calm and down and we'll talk, if you want, okay?" Another pause. "If you're not here within twenty minutes, I will call Laura. I mean it."

*     *     *     *

It was hard to walk when your legs are shaking so bad that they threaten to give out with every step you take, and your head is spinning like a fucking carousel, not even counting the waves of nausea and pain that erupt with each slight movement. 

When he reached the front door, Clint wasn't even sure he had the energy to knock, let alone deal with whoever answered his pathetic call. He was grateful for the doorbell, once he spotted it, and leaned heavily against alcove wall that sheltered the front door. He hadn't even realised he'd started to vacate, until a firm hand on his shoulder made him jump, violently, and sway, almost drunkenly, away from the wall.

James yanked Clint against his body and held him there for several long moments, locked in a hug. Clint buried his face in the other teen's shoulder and fisted the back of his hoodie. He lost himself in the warm solid mass that was James; so much so, that he didn't notice how James was rocking them gently side to side, or how he was murmuring "you're fine. You're okay. It's fine. It's okay" over and over, into Clint's hair.

*     *     *     *

James' room was nothing like Clint expected, and yet everything at the same time. It was larger than Clint's room, with deep, warm grey walls and a dark wooden floor. The double bed in the middle of the back wall, with its black metal frame, was clad in blue and grey sheets. Cut into the adjacent wall was a huge window, with a sill large enough for four square cushions. There was also a dark wood desk, in one corner, with a squashy black desk chair and a laptop, as well as a tightly packed bookshelf and a towering wardrobe, the same shade as the desk. Clint could have spent hours looking around that room; reading the spine of each well-thumbed novel and sifting through the clothes that, no doubt, hung neatly in the wardrobe. 

Rolling his eye at Clint, James led him to the bed, and pushed him back onto it. 

"Okay, what hurts?"

Clint blinked. "What?"

A huff. "I know you're hurt, and more than just that great shiner you're supporting."

"Just scrapes. A fight." James muttered something that Clint didn't quite catch. 

"Jacket off, so I can have a look." A box, that looked suspiciously like a first aid kit, had appeared in James' hands. Clint hesitated, then removed his worn out black denim jacket, ducking his head as he did so. 

James let out a soft exhaled hiss, and traced a gentle fingertip along the raised and puckered lump of a scar, that ran down the inside of Clint's wrist, then over the several of the many silvery lines that slashed across the main one. 

A finger hooked under Clint's chin and tilted his head upwards. Soft, dark eyes met his, unblinking and gentle.

"Hey, you're past that now. That was the bottom, but now you're rising. Maybe slowly at times, but definitely rising, or you wouldn't be here now." His voice was as soft as his eyes.

Clint stared into James' eyes , then cupped the back of his head and brought their lips together. It was far from a perfect first kiss, but that didn't make it any less special. Their awkward bumping noses and readjusting of lips pushed away the tension that had almost begun to swell. The taste sweet taste of something, almost like caramel, lingered on Clint's lips as he drew back, leaving him wondering what he left on James'. Probably the bitter taste of bile.

When he leaned in for another kiss, James held him back, with a finger to his lips. "Injuries first. Kisses after."

*     *     *     *

They were lying across James' bed, side by side, on their backs, staring up at the ceiling. Apparently to James, injuries had meant mental, not just physical. 

"Rough week again?"

"Rough week again."

"Y'know, I had a pretty fuckin' rough week too." Clint tilted his head down a bit to look at James, but the other boy was fixed staring at the ceiling.

He must have taken Clint's silence to mean he was listening, because James spoke again.

"I was doing alright with my PTSD, and then I had another fucking episode. A bad one." Inhale. Exhale. "It used to be any kind of violence that triggered them, and then it became just male, and then only adult male. And then, I was out with Steve and Tony, in the centre, and some guy started yelling. He was our age, across the street and just having a laugh. But I fucking flipped."

"What happens when you have an episode?" He hadn't even meant to speak, but the words were out before he could stop them. 

"Lots of things; I lose control mostly. Panic attacks, rage fits, screaming. That kind of thing. I hurt people, not intentionally, but still."

Silence hung over them for a long moment.

"I got kinda bad again, felt numb. I wanted to make it go away, but I didn't want to bother you. It was probably withdrawal, but I didn't want to relapse or break my clean streak, so I got in a fight instead. I had a panic attack and threw up."

There was silence again, and Clint's heart was thudding so loud he wondered if James could hear it.

"Did you win?" Clint blinked. "The fight, did you win?"

"I don't even fucking know." 

The two of them burst into laughter, snorting half breaths and curling on their sides. He rolled over and seamlessly shifted his legs, so he was straddling James. 

"Injuries done. Kissing now."

It had been a while since Clint had kissed someone properly, yet it all came flooded back to him as the taste of James seeped into his mouth. 

 

**5**

Clint had dated three people in his life time. The first one was a girl, when he thirteen. She had been an early developer, like him, and had the biggest boobs of any girl in their grade. Apparently she had a thing for his shadow-like bruises ans smoking habit he'd picked up off his asshole father - the 'bad boy' aesthetic. He had sex with her several times - her house, his shithole of a house, a bush and fuck knows where else - all unprotected. She'd claimed she was pregnant, but it didn't matter, because he'd gone by that point; they moved to an even shittier area of Iowa. He probably didn't ever actually like her anyway.

The second one was when he was fifteen; his first boyfriend. It was a fast paced relationship, barely a proper one. They were both in the closet at the time, but fucked whenever and wherever they could. Clint had been thinking of coming out for while, but the other boy insisted he wait, because they should come out together, and he wasn't ready yet. After a while, it stopped feeling like love, and more like he was just being used for sex. Clint had planned to break it off, but somehow his father found out, and there was about a week gap in his memory, where he could barely remember anything, except spending a lot of time bleeding a stain into the crusted carpets of their apartment. 

The third was James, who had been ignoring Clint's texts for over a week. Clint wasn't quite sure what he'd done wrong, but he knew it was something. It was always something.

The Youth Centre hall was mostly full when Clint arrived - he was late. It wasn't like he'd over slept, he just hadn't wanted to go. Part of him was afraid to see James, the other part was just tired of everything and was more than happy to avoid all human interaction. 

James' lack of replies would have been okay if Clint had just been saying hi, but he hadn't been. The first few times, he'd been asking him out on a date. It had gotten worse when Clint had needed him; he'd sent a message saying he needed a distraction because his mind wouldn't shut up. James had looked at the message and not sent anything back. Now it was five days later, and Clint couldn't remember when he'd last eaten, or slept. 

"Please join us, Clint. I believe it's nearly your turn anyway."

He didn't fucking care.

"So how's your week been?"

"It's been fuckin' rough." He swallowed. "I tried to reach out to someone, when I needed help. But they weren't there for me. It felt like I was drowning. and I was calling to someone who had a lifesaver, but they wouldn't throw it to me; just stood there."

Holly nodded. "I'm proud of you for reaching out when you needed it. This means, however, that you just need to find different people to reach out to; ones who will throw you a lifesaver."

Clint drifted for a while, pondering this statement, until James' voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"My week wasn't good; I had an episode and my sister, got hurt. I threw a chair, and it caught her. She was mostly okay, and she knew it wasn't my fault, but it stuck in my head and bothered me all week. I was so busy wallowing in my own misery, that I pushed away everyone else. I ignored all invitations to go out, even though they would have made me feel better, and I didn't help someone who needed it. I should have helped them, and they could have helped me in return, and now I know they think it's their fault I was rude, and I don't know if they'll forgive me."

Holly looked mildly surprised - James barely ever said so much. "Well, you can only try. Apologise to them, in person if you can, and explain everything. Maybe you can offer to make it up to them, if it'll make you feel better, and to show them you mean your apology." 

*     *     *     *

James waited outside for Clint after the session. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets and he looked upset. 

"Clint. I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry."

"I know. But that doesn't stop me from being fucking mad and hurt." He turned away and exhaled, hard. Swinging himself back around, he looked firmly at James. "I don't want to fight, or argue, and definitely not break up. So here's the deal; we're going to go on a date, right now, to that shitty little diner you seem to love, you're going to make the best apology you've ever made, then you're going to pay and we're going to go back to mine and have the best makeup make out session ever, probably with some handjobs included. Okay?"

"Got it."

 

**+1**

Cupping the back of James’ head, Clint slid their lips together, as if they’d been made only for this purpose. He tilted his head a little more and pushed further in, deepening the kiss, and earning a slight noise of surprise from his boyfriend. He felt a hand push up the back of his shirt, while another began to creep down the back waistband of his jeans. A whine built in his throat and he pulled away.

”Nope, saving that for later.” He winked and James let out something that could have been mistaken for a growl. 

“Upstairs.” It was a command, not a suggestion and Clint was not one to say no to things.

They stumbles up the stairs, giggling and stealing kisses as they went, not taking half as much care as they should to avoid falling. Pushing James down, so he was sitting with his back resting against the headboard, Clint straddled his thighs and kissed him, more fervently than before. 

Hands cupped and pulled bodies together, lips smeared and breaths panted in arroused tones. Clint groaned in the back of his throat as a warmth curled in his belly, before spreading lower and becoming a more intense heat. He shifted on James’ thighs and his breath stuttered in his throat at the friction that rubbed back against him. 

Beneath him, James was staring up through dilated pupils and kiss swollen lips. Clint groaned again, then tugged off the shirt the other boy was wearing. Pressing kisses behind his jaw, which soon became bites, he left a trail of pinkish marks down James’ neck and over his collarbones, before sucking a hot mark on his sternum.

”F-Fuck, Clint.” The words came out gaspy, and just the sound of his voice, made Clint’s dick throb. Hands tugged at the hem of his shirt and Clint let James tug it off, over his head. A warm, wet mouth clamped over his nipple and shudder rippled through him, with a moan. 

“Shit.” He grunted, biting his lip hard. 

James pulled back and they sat apart for a moment, taking raspy breaths and gently grinding their crotches together subconsciously. 

“Before we go any further,” James licked his lips, “I feel like we should make some decisions.”

”Me, fucking you, right here, right now.” Clint paused. “Where do you keep your lube and condoms?”

James huffed a laugh. “Where every teenage boy does; in the drawer of his bedside table.” Clint grinned, the pulled their lips together again. 

Feeling a hand slide down the waistband of his Jeans, Clint rolled the two of them over and let James take control. Cool air hit his legs and a warm hand gripped pushed against the throbbing erection, straining hard against his now too tight boxers. A whine built in his throat. 

“If you’re gonna start doing that...” he trailed off as James massaged against his dick again. The heavy warmth burned in his crotch and his dick pushed impossibly tighter against his underwear. Rolling them back over, he made quick work of James’ jeans and ground their crotches together in fir, strokes, their panting echoing. 

“Fuck. I want you inside me.” Clint grinned. 

“Needy, are we?” 

“Fuck. Yeah.” James was groaning out each word and Clint wanted nothing more than to hear him moaning his name as he came.

Pushing down the waistband of James’ boxers, Clint wrapped his hand around James’ girth. The size of his boyfriends dick still amazed him every time. As he pushed up against James’ foreskin, he pulled down his own boxers. 

A moan erupted from his throat as a hand pulled against his dick and he fumbled around the bedside table for the bottle of lube. He massaged a generous layer over his fingers and spread his boyfriends’ thighs, before sliding between them. Gently, but firmly, he pushed his finger up his boyfriend’s hole. A moan escaped James.

Adding another finger, Clint touched himself to the sound of his boyfriend, jerking the foreskin and groaning into his teeth. As he added a third, and then a fourth finger, James pushed his other hand out the way and rolled a condom down his dick. 

“Tell me to stop if it gets too much.” 

Clint pulled his fingers out, earning a soft gasp from James, and lined his tip up with the hole. Slowly pushing forward, he slid his dick in, moaning as pleasure erupted from his bulging penis.

As he began to thrust, James moaned softly beneath him, his hands grabbing for Clint, digging his short nails in. They moaned together, both knowing neither would last long. 

Clint found himself thrusting harder and faster as heat built in his groin. He came, hard, with a rough moan. James a moment later, his back arched and his boyfriends name playing on his lips. 

Pulling out, Clint collapsed down on the bed beside him. 

“I fuckin’ love you”

”and I fucking love you too”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so, this was the first time in ages since I’ve written smut, so I do apologise if it’s terrible. I think maybe I’ll just stick to writing other things instead  
> -Si


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